B-Movie
Streaming lights flow out from the projection booth (dust motes notwithstanding), becoming universal dreams from the unconscious uncoiled collective multiple us, slouched low in theatre seats. Black and white nighttime scenes populate the big screen. A dark four-door sedan turns and twists up the winding hillside roadway. Magnified life informs us of possibilities, as light waves defy darkness above the slouched and unsteady, in the wounded movie house, filled with open-eyed flesh clutching selves. There’s a lost and long-haired woman standing by the side of the road, the shoulder of her garment torn and frayed. She’s staring into the car headlights. Wondering wordlessly. Tall trees, in shadowy nighttime’s numinous underworld. How’d I wind up here, am I really this kind of dame? Headlights capture her face and tell the tale for expanding eternity. Two lights speeding beside the roadway, fast moving reminders galaxies do burst in brains in good ways, sometimes, like stars of yesterday smoking cigarettes in movies where everyone smoked. She takes off her heels, clutching them in one hand and walk-slides down the hillside. Dropping every bullet but one from the gun in her purse, in the roadside weeds. The guy thought she wouldn’t see death coming, but by his surprised look he didn’t expect an icepick in the forehead. There’s something to think about for next lifetime, pal. She makes it to the bottom of the canyon, slips her heels back on. Watching car headlights, she’s waving down a ride. Lights do their luminous business and move on, being dreamy symbols set in circular patterns, placidly meandering, snowflakes of eternity. In the communal darkness, lives sway and stay and even say what can never be said, during the light of day.
Thank you kindly, DuVay.
Thank you, George.